


They Closed Their Eyes And Prayed You Would Change

by MellytheHun



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Moving Away, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Requited Love, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Soft Richie Tozier, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenagers, also a gift fic, written for the pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22248103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: Richie's moving away, and Eddie doesn't want to say goodbye, because as long as no one says it out loud, then it's not really happening.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 52
Kudos: 237





	They Closed Their Eyes And Prayed You Would Change

**Author's Note:**

> head's up - this is straight up torture, mind the tags
> 
> written for the incredibly talented Alex (compilerror on Twitter), whose art inspired all this angst - follow him, engage with his art, he's amazing, talented, and super friendly, and lets u write garbage pain fic abt reddie in his name i mean who could ask for more???

Eddie’s awake, because he’s always awake.

It doesn’t always feel like he’s awake, _because_ he’s always awake, though, which is just another paradox in the nightmare-scape of his life that he’s willing to ignore. 

It’s just that staying awake all the time, or denying oneself sleep can make one derealize, which Eddie knows already, he just doesn’t care anymore. It can make a person feel as if they’re dreaming, or it can make the distinction between dream and reality sort of just erode, because everything gets wonky, but that’s better than falling asleep.

He’s awake, because sleeping is so dangerous, dreams are so twisted up, and normal - it’s always him, walking into the pharmacy, or sitting down to dinner with his mother, or filling out a scantron for a midterm, or putting on a suit, and sitting at a desk, and the normalcy is so frightening, it’s so woeful, so lonely, he waits until he’s so exhausted that he doesn’t dream at all.

He doesn’t laugh in his dreams.

So, he’s awake, he’s always awake, he’s moving through time like it’s a pool full of jell-o; that is to say, inconsistently, and with great difficulty. He’s awake, and he’s standing in his room, with nowhere to go, and nothing to do with his hands, and his heart is pounding, because he left Richie’s going-away party early, and Richie didn’t notice, because he was busy pretending that Stan wasn’t crying, so Eddie left without saying goodbye, because he cannot say goodbye to Richie, he cannot, under any circumstances, say goodbye to Richie, he can’t do it, he won’t do it, he can’t.

That - it doesn’t make sense.

Richie can’t go, he can’t leave - Richie is the good stuff about being awake, he’s fun, and he makes everything full of color, and life, and he makes a racket at the pharmacy, knocking shit over with his wiry, gangly limbs, insisting to patrons that pull doors are actually push, and vice versa, trying on every pair of sunglasses, sampling lipsticks, jumping the counter to grab at random prescription fills just to see who ‘buys sex stuff,’ and the pharmacists hate him when he tags along with Eddie, because he’s always asking about how life-threatening his good looks are, how much time he’s got left, and it’s so stupid, but it’s funny every fucking time.

The last time Richie was invited to dinner at Eddie’s, he played nice, sat politely at the table with Eddie and his mother, then stacked his mashed potatoes up, scraping them with his fork, and kept telling Eddie’s mother ‘I can’t describe what it is I’m feeling, or thinking, but this means something! It’s important!’ and she didn’t get the reference, and thought he needed hospitalization, and Eddie threatened to kill Richie over it if he didn’t drop the idiotic act, but secretly he loved watching his mother panic, which he couldn’t help with because he couldn’t tell her he knew what movie Richie was reenacting, and that’s all because he hadn’t technically been given permission to see _Encounters of the Third Kind_ , but Richie had dragged him onto his living room couch and forced him to watch it the year before, so he mostly tried not to laugh, and watched as Richie insisted to Sonia that he was ‘still the same old Richie,’ and ‘I don’t know what it is, but it’s important!’

Their last midterm, Richie signed his scantron with a loopy, theatrical signature, and put below it ‘reach for the stars, kid,’ as if it were an autograph, and he was sent to the principal’s office for being a smart ass, and all Eddie could focus on was how wide Richie’s shit-eating grin was, and how low he bowed as he left the classroom, as though to an audience that would dearly miss him.

Last tie Eddie put on was for his cousins’s wedding, and he stared at himself in the mirror, aggravated with what looked like his future - his boring, plain, unimportant future, where he’d dress up like this every day, and there wouldn’t be any quarry swimming, or Now and Laters, or bike races, because that’s kid-stuff, and grown-up-stuff is wearing ties, and being quiet, and respectful, and he wondered if he’d ever even been a kid at all, and he couldn’t remember the last time he felt significant, or unique, and then Richie had come by on his bike, sunburnt (Eddie does not understand Richie’s aversion to sunblock, but it stresses him out), his hair a mess, and he’d said, ‘dang, Kaspbrak - lookin’ sharp! Give us a twirl!’

Eddie had flipped him off, and Richie had laughed out, ‘oh, I love it when you get feisty like that!’ - and it all felt right. That had felt good; Richie saying something nice while somehow still managing to make it sound like an insult, and Richie smiling, and Richie laughing, and Richie seeing him, and confirming that he’s still real, and still here, and it’s not a dream, because it’s fun, and it’s full of color, and ridiculousness, and _Richie_ is how he knows he isn’t dreaming.

Richie is just this agent of chaos, totally unpredictable, choosing odd times to be quiet, and all the wrong times to be loud and crass, and Eddie’s brain just regurgitates what it takes in all day, everyday, except Richie, because as much time as he gets with Richie, Richie still surprises him. Richie is still a formula his brain can’t replicate.

It’s why being awake is so much better than sleeping. 

Richie.

His ugly shirts are colorful, and stupid, and his hair is a little ridiculous at this point, and his glasses still make him look like a Muppet-inspired owl, but he smiles, and it’s like all the lights in the world come on at once - he’s got this goofy, million watt grin that could power every toaster oven and car radio from Maine to Timbuktu, but he hasn’t smiled like that in weeks.

And he’s not smiling now.

Eddie knows that, because Eddie’s awake, standing around his room, not knowing what to do with his hands when Richie tosses a rock against Eddie’s bedroom window.

He knows who it is - there’s only one person in Eddie’s life that’s ever done stuff like this; so he goes to the window, and he opens it up. He stares down at Richie - there’s a car waiting at the curb, and the back seat is packed up, and Eddie despises the two vague figures sitting up front.

“Eds - can I come up?”

“Weren’t you guys supposed to have left, like, an hour ago?”

“We had to drop Stan home.”

It’s explanation enough - Eddie’s never seen Stan so distraught before.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I please just come up?” Richie asks again, voice crackling.

Sighing heavily, Eddie leans back from the windowsill, gathering his strength; his chest feels impossibly tight, and painfully hot. 

He wants to say ‘no.’

He wants to be asleep.

It’s probably better than this. 

Anything is better than this.

All Eddie does is turn away, and leave the window open, though.

He hears the groan of the tree in his front lawn as Richie’s grown a bit too tall, and just strong enough to put a strain on it as he climbs; he falls inside the room, dropping his book bag on the floor, and Eddie stands a good distance away from him, staring at him, fidgeting, swaying a little, like he might duck and run, or jump out the fucking window himself, or fight Richie, or something - his body’s got no idea what to do.

Richie looks so tired.

“Irish exit, huh? I mean, classy, I guess, but not what I was -”

“What are you doing?” Eddie manages to ask.

Richie bites his lip, shoves his hands in his jean pockets, and stares down at his shoes, and it’s so endearing, and Eddie is so fucking scared this will be the last time he ever sees Richie, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“I wanted to say goo -”

“Don’t!” Eddie all but shouts, his legs carrying him to Richie beyond his control as he waves his arms in those sharp movements Richie likes imitating, “Fucking don’t! Just don’t! Don’t fucking say it, and it’s not real, if you don’t say it, it’s not real, so fucking don’t - just don’t - just don’t!”

Gripping hard on Richie’s stupid Hawaiian Dad Shirt, he tugs Richie close, and tucks his face into Richie’s shoulder, tears springing to his eyes faster, and harder than he thought they could, or ever would.

“Richie, you can’t go,” Eddie whines, his stomach contracting with how hard he cries, “Richie, please - live under my bed, or something, just - I’ll - we - it can be anything else, it can be anyone else, Richie, but you - I - you gotta stay, you gotta stay, you can’t go, you can’t leave me like this!”

Richie’s palm comes to cup the back of Eddie’s head, and Eddie spreads his palm out over Richie’s heart to feel it beating, and he wishes he’d done that more often, he wishes he’d touched Richie more, that he’d hugged Richie more, that he’d ridden with Richie on his bike more, that he’d messed up Richie’s hair more, and tried on his stupid shirts, and done more - done more, that he could hold onto, made more memories of what Richie Tozier feels like, and smells like.

“Please, please don’t go, Rich,” Eddie sobs, “Please stay. Please.”

“You were - you were gonna be happy for me, Eds,” Richie says hoarsely, a calloused hitchhiker thumb rubbing back and forth on the back of his neck, “You were gonna be stoked for me, that I was getting out of this town.”

“Fuck Derry, Richie, I don’t want you to leave _me_ ,” he explains desperately.

“Even if I could stop my parents, Eds, it’s not safe here for me. For people like me. I can’t fuckin’ stay anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Eddie asks, pulling his head up to look at Richie finally.

Richie’s eyes are swimming, and Eddie feels his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

He really wishes Richie would just say ‘sike,’ already, and then Eddie could scream, and throw shit at him, and then convince him to sleep over for three days straight, and they could put this ugly business behind them.

“You gotta know by now…” Richie murmurs, but it’s almost as if it’s to himself more than Eddie.

“Stay,” Eddie begs again, tugging on Richie’s shirt.

“I can’t.”

There’s a honk from outside, and Eddie jumps like a frightened cat, breathing out, “don’t go, don’t go -”

Richie’s hand moves down from the back of his neck, over his shoulder blade, petting his flank until it’s at his waist, and then his other hand, with its rough palm, slides up to so gently cup his cheek - Eddie grasps Richie’s bony wrist, unsure of what’s happening, thinking that if he goes outside to the car with Richie, maybe he can make a case strong enough for why they can never, ever leave him, why Richie is too important, how Richie is everything worth being awake for - but then Richie is kissing him.

And really, the most bizarre part of it isn’t that it’s Richie, that it’s a boy, that it’s one of his closest friends in the world - it’s that it’s perfect. Like Richie designed the kiss just for him, like _Richie_ was designed by loving hands that make him fit against Eddie without blemish, or error, like two perfect puzzle pieces slotting together, like they’ve been training their whole lives for this one, spectacular moment.

Richie’s lips are soft, his face is feverishly warm, his cheeks are ruddy red, his brows are pulled in tight like he’s in pain, and Eddie doesn’t realize he’s not closed his eyes until he’s wondering at how thick, and long Richie’s eyelashes are, how smooth, and pretty Richie’s skin is, how handsome he is so up close, how desperate he looks, and then Richie is stepping back again, tears are rolling down Eddie’s face -

There are feral waves of memories smashing over him, all of which seem now like they were out of context when they occurred, and the context has only just been handed to him, finally, after years of - 

**You okay, Eds?** \- _yeah, I’m fine, it’s nothing_ \- **as long as you’re sure...**

_The fuck are you smiling about?_ \- **can’t a guy just enjoy being with his best bud in the whole wide world?** \- _fuck you, Richie_ \- **is that any way to speak to your best bud?**

**What?** \- _you're staring_ \- **oh, uhm, was I? Sorry** \- _no, it's fine, just, do I have something on my face, or_ \- **no, sorry, I didn't mean to stare.**

_Go on ahead, I gotta take my pills_ \- **I know. It’s cool, I’ll stay with you** \- _you don’t have to_ \- **I know.**

**You should come to the Aladdin with me!** \- _are the others going?_ \- **you want me to invite them?** \- _oh, no, I guess, I just thought..._ \- **come on, it’s a romcom, you’ll love it!**

_You’re goin’ to the pharmacy? I’ll go with you!_ \- **you hate running errands** \- _not when I’m with my Spaghetti-cakes!_ \- **you’re so fucking annoying, dude.**

**Where you headed, Eds?** - _I gotta get home for dinner_ \- **can I come?** \- _can you behave?_ \- **you know I can’t, Eddie, that’s a ridiculous question** \- _then you can’t come to dinner_ \- **aw, come on! I’ll be good!** \- _are you physically capable of behaving yourself?_ \- **for you, Eds? Anything!**

_Richie?_ \- **dang! Lookin’ sharp, Kaspbrak! Give us a twirl!** \- _fuck you, dude!_ \- **oh, I love it when you get feisty like that!** \- _I will hunt you down and kill you for sport, Richie_ \- **what!? I’m being serious! You look foxy, Eds!** \- _alright, fuck you, get off our lawn, you nuisance_ \- **I love your petnames for me, Eds!**

“I gotta go.”

Eddie’s breathless, the world’s off its axis, he wishes he were dreaming, but it’s all too incredible, and beautiful, and horrible to be a dream.

“No, don’t go -” Eddie pleads, gripping onto Richie’s shirt wherever he can grab it; Richie’s turned away from him, won’t look at him anymore -

_“... it’s not safe here for me. For people like me. I can’t fuckin’ stay anymore.”_

How long has Richie been scared? How long has Richie wanted out of Derry? How long has Eddie known, and just not said anything, because saying it would have made it real?

“Richie, Richie - I’ll - I’ll protect you, I’ll - we can - it can be safe - we can be safe together - we can keep each other safe -” Eddie scrambles to say as Richie begins backing out the window, “Richie! It’s okay - _you’re_ okay - we - we can - I can -”

Tears are falling down Eddie’s face in earnest now, and he’s got his hands on Richie’s, over the sill, and Richie hangs his head, “I’d never put you in danger like that, Eddie.”

“Please, Richie…” Eddie utters, his tears spilling onto Richie’s white knuckles, wanting to see his eyes more than he ever has before, “Please stay.”

“Eddie, I love you.”

It takes every fibre of Eddie’s being to not seek out his inhaler, he swears his heart stops altogether - it’s not fair, none of this is fair - this is why he left the fucking party early, this is why he didn’t say goodbye, because goodbyes fucking suck, they suck, they’re for people that don’t stay, there for the folks that say words like ‘forever,’ but really mean ‘until the world gets in the way,’ and there are probably happy goodbyes out there somewhere, but Eddie’s never seen a single one himself, and he didn’t want this.

“Stay, Rich, _please_.”

Laughing bitterly, Richie mumbles back, “Eds, I love you, but no fucking way.”

“But, I -”

Richie pushes up one last time to kiss Eddie’s fingers, leaving a hot trail of tingles in his wake, and then he’s sliding his way down the tree, and Eddie is calling after him, “please, please don’t - Richie! Richie!”

The streetlights make Richie’s falling tears twinkle like shooting stars as they fall down to the ground, and Eddie’s lips feel puffy, and warm, and his face is wet with tears still streaming, and his body feels like it’s got no bones left, but is stuffed with crumpled balls of paper, and he’s a moment from collapsing.

He reaches down to grab Richie’s backpack, left behind - he goes to call Richie again, insist he come back for it, but Richie’s already in the back seat of the station wagon, head in his hands, rocking, and visibly shaking as the car takes off.

Eddie races down the stairs with the bag - his mother wonders at what he’s doing, but he pays her no mind. He rushes out the front door, down the lawn, but he only sees the Toziers’ tail lights as they turn down the next block, and out of sight, and every breath is such a struggle, every intake burns like nothing before, and Eddie is so cold, even though it's summer, and he needs this all to be the worst joke Richie has ever told, but that car isn't coming back, and neither is Richie.

Depleted, Eddie crumbles to the ground, his knees scraping the pavement, leaning his weight on the backpack, sobbing into it, hating that it smells like Richie, because he knows the smell will fade in time, and he’s so scared he’ll never hear from Richie again, the same way they never heard from Beverly again, he’s so scared he’ll never laugh again, he’s so scared he’ll never know the difference between waking, and sleeping again.

He unzips the backpack, and inside he sees a collection of borrowed shirts finally returned and stretched out beyond repair, action figures with Eddie's initials on them (likely left at the Tozier household over the years of play), and piles of comic books they’d went in on together - there’s no note. There isn’t one needed.

 _You were more than that to me_ , Eddie wants to tell him, _You're more than all of this to me._ _Oh my God, you're so much more than this - you're all this, and everything colorful, and loud, and bright, and good - Richie, I love you._

He means to say it out loud, thinking that maybe if he says it, somehow, because it's real, Richie will know it, Richie will feel it, but Eddie doesn't think life works that way.

As his mother worriedly steps outside, coming to collect him, he finds he can’t make any words over the clenching of his muscles, how his entire body is rejecting the truth of Richie leaving, he’s only sobbing, gasping for air, shaking from head to toe, his heart lurching in this awful way, and he knows quite suddenly that he’ll always know when he’s awake now.

Nothing in his dreams has ever hurt this badly before.

So, if it hurts, it must be real.

What he feels for Richie must be the realest thing he’s ever felt in all his life, and Richie's not here, so it hurts.

He's awake. 

He knows he's awake, because he's always awake, and if he weren't, none of this would be real, and if it weren't real, it wouldn't hurt this much.

Eddie's awake.


End file.
